


Tea and Other Things

by InsomniaAndTea



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsomniaAndTea/pseuds/InsomniaAndTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is tea, philosophy, origami, possibly some symbolism, and hopefully passive-aggresism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Other Things

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I write Mobsterswitch with an entirely female Meddlesome Company.

Pernicious Innovator sits a steaming teacup in front of you delicately, and settles in at the table across from you with a smile. You regard him with rather less fondness, very markedly not moving. He frowns slightly, and waves a hand at you.

“I would not serve you a cup of good tea and then let it go to waste,” he says reasonably. 

You nod in acceptance and carefully reach out with one hand, fingers curling about the delicate stem of the cup. The heat of the tea is a welcome relief from the chill of the attic; you suspect that in the summer it would be miserably hot here, but since a snowstorm roars outside there is a distinct chill.

You settle back into your chair, appreciatively sipping the tea. Whatever Innovator’s other faults are, he makes wonderful tea. You quietly enjoy the warmth as it slips down your throat, even when your swallowing briefly brings your throat in closer contact to the collar about your neck. 

It is one of many minor annoyances that comes from being kidnapped by someone you could reasonably label a criminal mastermind. Your hair has been let down, and it cascades down the back of the chair. Your hairpins have no doubt been discretely tucked away somewhere, most likely right next to your deck of cards. You find this thoroughly annoying, as your hairpins do not actually do anything besides keep your hair out of your face.

(You are quite certain that Innovator is well aware that the pins do nothing, but you rather suspect that he finds the sway and shine of your hair to be fascinating. This adds evidence to your theory that he is part cat. Other pieces of evidence include his preference for high spots that are warm and comfy, his marked detachment until he decides he want company, and his unfortunate tendency to not eat at all because he finds the food ‘icky’.)

Innovator clears his throat softly, and your wandering gaze snaps back to him. He smiles apologetically before he continues.

“I am unsure if you were aware of this, but you have been here for a week,” he says, testing the waters.

“Really,” you say, mind whirling about, trying to be sure your recollection fits this length of time and feel slightly perturbed that you cannot be sure.

He nods. “Your Company has been looking for you.”

“As expected,” you say neutrally, taking another sip of tea to hide the impossibly tiny smile that darts across you lips. Innovator is normally quite cagey about what happens on the outside.

He picks a wind-up toy up off the table, and slowly begins to turn the crank. “They are proving to be rather… annoying,” he says with a frown, placing the toy upon the table. The wind-up crow comes to life jerkily, and begins hopping about. “They lack your subtlety.”

You watch the crow to avoid looking at him. “I am not surprised. Presumably, Scout is leading them. She has a flair for the… dramatic.”

His hand moves towards a remote, causing your breath to momentarily catch as the collar suddenly feels far too tight about your throat in phantom remembrance, but he instead taps the mechanical crow out of the way of some wiring. “Detective, I am typically well aware of when the line between dramatics and wanton destruction has been crossed. But I must admit, your comrades are forcing me to reconsider my findings on the matter.”

You set your teacup down, barely louder than the little clicks coming from the toy. “Again, unsurprising.”

He glances at you, a finger tapping against the table nervously. “They are also remarkably competent.”

Your face remains smooth, and your own fingers discover a sheet of paper, halfway buried under various objects left lying about carelessly on the table. “I presume they are making progress.”

“Of a sort,” Innovator admits. “They are most certainly disruptive to the normal procedures of various criminal elements. Scofflaw himself is somewhat worried.”

You allow him to see your enigmatic smile as you tug the paper into your lap. “I expect nothing less of them.”

His nervous finger taps a little faster. “Truly. I was not expecting their… enthusiasm, with you missing.” The little wind-up crow slowly comes to a stop, it’s regular ticks slowly falling silent.

You pretend to consider the paper as you carefully crease it. His polite insult to the rest of the Meddlesome Company is not surprising. Many people hold the same views. They were also proven wrong, if they were ever given the chance to test their theories.

“Well, perhaps you are looking at us from the wrong perspective,” you say, adding a second crease. “We were not a detective agency, originally.”

He stares at you disconcertingly. “Really?”

You delicately run your tongue over the second crease, ignoring the way his eyes follow. “Truly,” you say, laying the paper flat on the table and gently tugging at the crease, wet paper tearing easily. “We traveled for quite some time as a jazz band.”

He smiles delightedly. “I was unaware you played,” he says, obviously charmed. “Or do you perhaps sing?”

“No ‘canaries’ in our band,” you inform him, continuing to methodically fold your paper. “I play the saxophone. Scout plays the piano, Brawler the double bass, and Demolitionist can play the oboe or the clarinet, depending on the set.”

There is the slightest of crinkles at the corners of his eyes; he is definitely amused. “I should like to hear you play sometime,” he says.

You pause. “We do not play very much anymore,” you say. “Time constraints.” Irritably, you brush a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. “But, as I was saying, a jazz band operates differently from a detective agency.”

“Very differently?” Innovator asks. “I would assume they are similar; after all, there is the conductor to serve as the head, the sheet music as the rules, and often a single notable figure or soloist to draw the crowds, is there not?”

“Nowadays, yes,” you reply, resuming your folding. “But we play an earlier style. No music, no conductor, entirely reliant on your band mates to keep things running smoothly. We might have a few regular songs, but they will most likely be different every time.” You place your completed folding on the table; it is a crow of your own, balanced unsteadily on its feet and beak. 

“Intriguing,” Innovator says, leaning forward slightly. “I admit, I am not very well versed in music, but that style sounds rather… precarious.”

You nod, and gently tap the crow, the folds in the paper forcing it to hop forward. “It does require practice and a good knowledge of both your instrument and the people you play with,” you admit. “After all, the key to this style is improvisation. Scout is quite good at that, which handily allowed us to bypass the fact that she cannot read music.”

Pernicious Innovator gives the crow a tap of his own. “Really? Then she must have a remarkable ear. I have heard her play before.”

You store that information away as you take the crow back into your hands. “Yes, and she keeps perfect pitch as well. Very helpful, when we depend on the piano for tuning. At any rate, due to the style of jazz we play being based off of improvisation, there is no permanent ‘leader’. Perhaps for a song or two I will lead and the other three serve mostly as background, but eventually someone else will step into the spotlight.” 

As you speak your hands are busy refolding the paper into a new configuration. “Any single player might serve as the lead during any given song; all you can do is trust that your band mates will continue to hold the song together for you, and they will trust you to do the same during their turn. If one person were to go missing for any reason,” you pause, “Well, this style finds workarounds quite easily.”

You place your newest creation on the table. This time, the traditional swan stands proud and ready, wings extended. “The wings flap,” you add offhandedly as Innovator reaches for it. “Tug the head or tail while you hold the middle.”

He does as you say, and you can very nearly see the gears turning in his head. “That was… most intriguing,” he says finally, setting the paper crane back down.

You smile politely, and pick the teacup back up. “Oh dear, it’s gone cold,” you say with polite dismay. “Half a cup, simply wasted.”

There is the sound of glass shattering downstairs, and the low buzz of an alarm begins before it is abruptly silenced.

Pernicious Innovator sighs, and sways to his feet. “I regret that I might not fix you another cup, but it would appear that our time has been cut short. Perhaps, the next time we meet, I could fix you a new pot in return for hearing you play the saxophone?”

You look at him dispassionately. “I much prefer playing with my band than alone,” you say. “It gives a better sound.”

He doffs his hat. “Another time, perhaps. I would love to call on you again.” He vanishes with a swirl of his trench coat and a judicious use of smoke pellets, and you immediately scrabble for the remote control on the table.

Footsteps pound up the stairs, and the door bursts open, revealing the three other members of the Meddlesome Company, all ready for business, albeit somewhat snow-dusted business.

“Boss!” Cheerful Demolitionist cries, dashing across the room. Snooping Scout and Heavy Brawler follow more carefully, suspiciously glaring about the room, wary of any tricks. 

Demolitionist skids to a stop by your chair and snatches the remote out of your hands. “Not until I get a look at these things!” she scolds, running stubby fingers around the collar in examination. “You always say we can never be too certain that something isn’t a trap!”

You rein in a sigh, and glance at Scout. “You’re late,” you state bluntly.

“Oh, fuck off,” she snaps. “Do you even know what all we had to do to find this place?”

“Destroy half the city and cause even worse relations between the Fuzz and us?” you deadpan.

“Har de fucking har,” she says. “No, we’re running ourselves ragged all over town, in the middle of this damn freezing snowstorm, beating the shit out of half the idiots in the city, and then Scofflaw shows up at my place and tries to distract me when I finally have to go home.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“He should be in the hospital right now with a bad case of being stabbed in the stomach,” she says grimly.

Your second eyebrow joins the first. “Impressive,” you say, giving an approving nod. 

Scout scoffs, finally relaxing her grip on her Rapier Wit. “Well, asshole had it coming. Like I’m gonna stop to fool around if my boss is in trouble.”

“Alright, all clear,” Demolitionist chirps cheerfully. She pushed a button on the remote, and the collar about your neck clicks open. You remove it and set it on the table, noting that your little origami crane has gone missing.

You stand carefully, but the sudden blood rush and weariness still offsets you, and you nearly fall over.

“Easy, boss,” Brawler rumbles, catching you before you can truly fall. “We’ve got ya.”

“Always do,” Demolitionist adds, giving you a quick one-armed hug that is only slightly damp from melting snow.

“Did you know your hair looks disgusting?” Scout asks, picking her way through various pile of junk.

“I can still rescind my previous compliment,” you say, completely unruffled.

Scout turns around long enough to stick her tongue out at you. “Still said it.” She gives a small sound of satisfaction and shuffles back over, your deck of cards in her hands. “Try not to get kidnapped again, okay? Fucking annoying to deal with.”

You accept your deck and shuffle it quickly, just to feel the cards running through your hands again. “I’ll work on it.”

**Author's Note:**

> And because I have an obsession with explaining things:
> 
> Innovator is thinking of the big bands, like Sinatra. Detective is describing early jazz, such as Louis Armstrong. (Technically, she and the rest of the Company will also occasionally play the very earliest jazz, where you don't have soloist, but that doesn't fit the metaphor, now does it?)
> 
> A canary is a disparaging term for a female jazz singer. The early jazz bands were not very pleased about having to accommodate them in order to get their records published. Two famous canaries were Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holliday.


End file.
